Boyfriend Vignette
by Mariel Nightstalker
Summary: Harry's boyfriend reflects on Harry's moods and the night they met. SLASH


A/N: This is not a return to regular activity- I am not on break. I simply had a spare hour (okay moment of truth it was an hour of scheduled research into iconography that I skived).

O

**Boyfriend Vignette**

If Harry was a place, he'd be Scandinavia. His sunny moods last for months, uninterrupted day and night by the merest flicker of shadow. Those are the good times. The bad times are the sunless days of northern winter, when I wonder if all those smiling days were some sort of elaborate mirage, and that this darkness is the true reality. But, always, before I can sink completely into despair, the sun returns.

I don't know how much longer I can stand living like this, but the alternative is unimaginable.

I met Harry about eighteen months ago at a dinner party I didn't want to go to, and I have given up on recovering from the experience at this point. I sat on opposite sides, one of us at each end, of the table, but I found a way to stare at him all night (even though it was rude and placed considerable strain on my eyes). He was, and is, magnificent. I consider my staring self-explanatory.

After dinner, when the guests were stumbling politely around the house listening to bad contemporary jazz and drinking pre-mixed cocktails, I made my move. Harry stood in front of my host's latest art acquisition, an impressionist painting of naked toddlers at the seaside. He'd bragged, without reason, that he'd purchased it quite cheaply while cruising over Christmas.

"Our host rather likes this painting."

Harry shrugged and finished the rest of his drink in a single impressive gulp. He coughed. He said, "Who the hell cares?"

I smiled, and liked him even more than my infatuation previously allowed.

"Do you want another drink?"

"Fuck yes." He seemed to regret his vehemence a moment later, made eye contact, and apologized, "Sorry- it's been one of those weeks. I'm not a nice person tonight."

"Does this party help or hurt?"

Harry smirked, and those green eyes flashed at me again, "What do you think, genius?"

"Alright, alright. I'll get you another and make sure it's strong. You've got a driver to get home, right?"

"I'll still be good to drive in two bottles time. Don't worry about me."

"Tough guy."

"Damn straight."

We left together. Harry was not okay to drive, despite his protests to the contrary. We stopped at McDonald's for a late-night snack, and I held his jacket while he threw up in the urinals. At his flat he invited me up on a flimsy pretense I cannot remember anymore, and I felt my insides turn into wobbly jelly with hope. Harry was mean, as he'd warned me, but he was an affectionate drunk and I'd been balancing on the knife edge of desire for hours now. Any encouragement at that point was as good as a green light.

Thank god I wasn't wrong. I'd barely stepped out of my dress shoes in consideration for his white carpet when his fingers were in my hair and his lips were on mine, ravishing me like a starving creature newly awakened from hibernation. I let myself be ravished and did some ravishing of my own. We didn't make it to the bedroom until after.

Harry's home now and he's having one of his fits. Bang go the drawers, slam go the cabinets, and crash go the pots. He is cooking- I can smell his characteristic garlic and….fish? I remain in the tub, listening, remembering the first time I saw him like this.

We'd been together for two months by then. It was a Thursday night, and I was coming over to have dinner and help him sort his BluRay collection. I didn't know what to make of his black mood. I, naively, tried to placate him. I assumed something went wrong at the office. He shook me off, and then shouted at me to leave him be when I wouldn't stop trying to calm him down. Now I know better. And, actually, ashamed as it makes me, I find his inexplicable anger (or, less often, exhilarated ecstasy) arousing. There is just so much _force _to him when he gets like this…

But never mind that. Harry is my second serious relationship, and considering that his predecessor backed out of marrying me, I was admittedly shy about asking Harry for commitment of any kind for fear of pressuring him into something that he did not genuinely desire to have with me. After a year of commuting from his place to mine, I worked up the courage to ask him to live with me, and he said he'd think about it. He never officially said yes, come to think of it. He just segued into living here all the time, and rents his old flat to some derelict university student on a shoestring budget.

Harry knocks on the cracked door, softly. I answer and he comes in. He is calmer now, and he bears two plates of fish, potatoes, and leeks. He hands me mine without greeting me and, belatedly, a fork. I smile and eat. He watches me for some time, and then gradually begins to eat his portion. I make no move to talk; we no longer feel the need to speak simply for the sake of speaking. This is not to say that we are comfortable around each other like other couples- that would be impossible with someone like Harry. We have simply learned a few tricks along the way.

When he is finished he sets his plate on the sink counter and undresses. He climbs into the lukewarm tub with me and turns on the faucet, adding hot water. I finish my plate and set it on the toilet seat. Harry has his knees drawn up to his chest and doesn't look at me. I touch his steam-damp hair. He sighs, and sounds tired.

It's been close to two years since we've been spending time together, having sex, and cohabiting and I don't even know if I'm allowed to call him my boyfriend, but, honestly, who the hell cares? He's Harry, not some boring bloke that works at a bank or a coffee shop or a nondescript office. He is bizarre, moody, and fascinating, and I love him.

O


End file.
